Ari scoffs. “I can’t keep the stuff. This is a $200 coat. Don’t think I didn’t look it up!”
She throws the coat onto the counter.
“It’s yours,” I tell her.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“You don’t be ridiculous,” I say too forcefully. “What are you about to do? Walk home in a handmade poncho?”
Ari adjusts the front of the striped, knitted monstrosity. “No, I’m on my way to the community center, as a matter of fact. It’s just on the next block, so I’m not going to freeze.”
Now she has my full attention. “No, I’m going to the community center.”
Ari blinks as she gazes up at me. “It’s possible that two things can be true at the same time. So you can walk with me and make sure I don’t die of hypothermia, since you’re so obsessed with my core body temperature.”
I like how Ari punctuates sarcasm with the brightest, most genuine smile. Her blue eyes crinkle the edges, and she shows all her teeth. I don’t understand people who just go around smiling and beaming all the time. I don’t know how anybody is just so happy-go-lucky when life can be so cruel.
And yet, sometimes life is kind and throws me a bone. I get to keep an eye on Ari, and I’m beginning to learn that I won’t need to hold up my end of the conversation. She can and does seem to enjoy doing all the talking.
“Let’s go,” I say, as I shove the cash pouch inside my messenger bag and grab the coat she dropped off. It still has her sunny, floral scent. And I’m reeling from it.
“I’m not wearing that coat,” she says, as we make our way down the street toward the community center.
“I didn’t say you had to.”
“It is very warm, but it’s not really my style.”
“What’s your style?”
“Oh, you know,” she says. “I like layers. Crocheted granny hats. Mittens with fun patterns. I’m not an outdoor sporty type of gal, like what your store caters to.”
“Well, I’m into you not being cold.”
I keep my eyes trained ahead of me as we walk, but I can see her in my peripheral vision, looking up at me.
“I’m not keeping the coat, Foster.”
I’m not thinking too much about her refusing the coat, and I am more interested in the way she says my name. Like she wants to use my full government name for extra emphasis.
When we arrive at the community center, I expect it to be crawling with volunteers. But there’s no one but Ari and me.
“Where is everybody?” I ask as I look around the cavernous gymnasium that’s been transformed from a basketball court into a reception hall, with round, linen-covered tables, fancy dining chairs with pink ribbons, a dance floor and a disco ball.
In the middle of the room is a ladder and a scaffold, and there are about a dozen bins and boxes overflowing with what looks like decorations.
“I thought I came to help the artist finish the room,” I say.
Ari smiles. “You did!”
I gawk at her as she sets her granny hat, poncho and bag on one of the tables, then goes to the wall of plastic bins.
“Wait a minute,” I protest. “It’s just you and me? Where is this so-called artist that I’m supposed to help hang a bunch of Cupids and shit?”
Ari rifles through one of the bins and pulls out a bunch of folded, pink paper sculptures that look like origami or something.
“I am. I am this so-called artist.”
I stare at her. This can’t be right.
